Birds were chirping freely in the Birch tree near the fox holes in the side of a hill, green cranberry and crowberry bushes. Everything was warm in the northern Sakhalin island, the August sun warming the coniferous forests. A nearby raspberry plant was getting picked clean by tanned fingers, sandy brown hair getting tangled slightly in the branches. A small hare darted out of a nearby bunch and into the path of the larger predator, running away as quickly as it appeared. It was about midday, so not much was out, but a lonely sable was darting around the tree roots in search of it’s next meal. The trees were densely packed in this part of the wood, sunlight filtering to the ground in green hues. It wasn’t quiet, the sounds of life all around in the Russian forest, however the noise the tourists brought with them was gone. Now the forest was returning to it’s normal state, with some of the Icarii who called this island their home coming out of their homes again. Normally the Icarii avoided the tourists at all costs, while the animals also tried to avoid being seen. Soon the weather would change though, so all animals were out, either preparing for the cold Russian winters or enjoying the little bit of warmth they would have in the next few months.